


The ‘Chosen’ One

by WhisperingAFantasy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, F/M, Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:15:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29836587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhisperingAFantasy/pseuds/WhisperingAFantasy
Summary: Harry contemplates on a quite, cold morning how no one, absolutely no one had chosen him for himself and not asked or expected nothing from him. Ever.No one except Hermione.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Hermione Granger
Comments: 14
Kudos: 101





	The ‘Chosen’ One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NoirWolf5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoirWolf5/gifts).



> All errors are my own. 
> 
> Though I have posted this approximately a month ago on the HMS Harmony discord, hopefully Noir doesn’t mind accepting this piece as a belated birthday gift.
> 
> A belated happy birthday you annoying little boy!

He noticed something odd for the first time approximately ten days after Ron had left them on the hunt. 

Hermione was restless, moving around in her bed and even in her sleep, her brows seemed furrowed; with the damn locket dangling around her neck. 

He stood there, watching her sleep and wondering what was she dreaming about, and then looking at the pinched look on her face, _even in her sleep_ , he thought she wasn’t relaxed even in her sleep and his heart broke a little for her. 

He didn’t know how to comfort her, he didn’t know what he could tell her. So, shaking his head he proceeded to the bathroom at the back quietly and finished his business. 

It happened then, when he was about to walk out of the tent to finish the rest of his watch, that a faint light suddenly became visible at the entrance of the tent. It was seemed bluish in colour, but then as the light entered the tent and he stood rooted to the spot, mouth hanging open, that he saw it wasn’t blue, so much as a rich hue of purple and the light was moving towards Hermione.

Hermione, who was still asleep. 

He quickly jumped into action and in three long strides crossed the distance between them but before he could think of a way to stop the light from touching Hermione, from doing whatever it could do to her, his best friend, two solid forms _materialised_ in front of his eyes from within the light and gently levitated towards Hermione. 

He stood there, unmoving, blinking, his mouth agape as he watched two… _cabbage patch kids_ gently landing on top of Hermione. 

Before his mind could comprehend the bizarre reality that he just saw playing out in front of his eyes, he saw Hermione turning in her sleep, one of her arms shooting out from under the blankets and wrapping itself across the toys as she hugged them tightly to her chest in her sleep and something about those old toys must have soothed her even in that state for she relaxed immediately and burrowed even more deeply into the blankets.

He walked out of the tent and resumed his watch, his mind reeling from the scene he just witnessed. 

Abruptly, he laughed out loud and then immediately put a hand over his mouth, trying to stifle the sound of his laughter. 

He had seen a evil wizard’s wraith, a 1000 year old basilisk and killed it, dementors, he had faced a dragon, fought magical terrorists and even survived being eaten alive by a colony of acromantulas, not to mention whatever the Whomping Willow could have and would have done to him at the beginning of his second year and a bunch of cabbage patch kids appearing had freaked him out? 

It was so bizarre he had to laugh a little again, even if a part of him wanted to cry. What had his life come to… 

Back before he had found he was a wizard, when he imagined himself as a 17 year old, he had no idea what his life would be like but it was never this. His most important ambition was to get away from the Dursleys and find a place for himself. He knew he would have started doing all he could towards that goal if life had allowed him the opportunity. 

And here he was - fighting a war, unprepared, unarmed, outnumbered, abandoned by one of his two best friends, starving, freezing, an insomniac plagued by nightmares when he could get himself to sleep and nearly going out of his mind. And to add cherry to the cake that was his life - not moments ago, freaked out by a burst of what seemed like accidental magic. 

He didn’t even know accidental magic was possible when you got older, once you held a wand. But then, his mind conjured up the memory of Aunt Marge bloating up, getting larger and larger until she floated away. Hadn’t he performed accidental magic himself at 13, wandlessly, even though he had been matched with his wand by then? 

He remembers discussing with Hermione the incident later on and how she had theorised that his emotions must have been overwhelmingly powerful for him to do that to Marge without even realising what he was doing or directing his magic intentionally. He had ardently wished to punish the woman in some manner and his magic had responded, reacted and done the needful. 

And his mind came to a screeching halt.

Was… was _Hermione’s_ magic responding and reacting to something that she desperately needed and couldn’t vocalise? Was the appearance of those toys, which did look a bit old and worn despite being in a good condition, a response to something Hermione needed? 

He recalled her appearance before the toys had appeared and later as she had clutched them and sighed in her sleep, burrowed in her blankets. 

She had looked both older and younger than her years simultaneously and his heart broke for her. 

She had stayed behind - with him, for him - and it seemed like he was failing her too, just like he had failed Ron. Had he known more, asked more questions or just asked Dumbledore to include Hermione in their lessons, perhaps this whole situation could have been avoided and been entirely different. 

His mind once again recalled the image of Hermione cuddling with those toys. How she had smiled in what felt like forever, even in her sleep, as if comforted and happy. And yet he couldn’t miss the way she looked gaunt and skinny. Her hair, a perpetual mess much like his own, coarse and dry, instead of the shiny and bouncy mess of curls it always was. 

He realised he had been avoiding talking to her or staying by her side besides the bare minimum since Ron had left, still smarting from Ron’s words and accusations, awkward and uncomfortable with the situation and afraid to ask and answer questions that invariably had cropped up because Hermione had chosen him. 

It was in that moment that Harry admitted to himself, his best friend, his first friend ever, Ron might have left them on this hunt but the echo of his words never did. 

Sitting by himself in the quiet hours of the twilight, as Harry looked at the horizon spanning in front of him, he couldn’t help but think of all the instances where he had been ‘ _chosen_ ’ in his life. 

His earliest memories were of Dudley and his gang choosing him, _to beat up, to harass, to bully._ They chose him as their target. And he chose to fight back initially, until he realised that he was outnumbered and quite frankly out of depth and learned to run. 

The kids in his school before Hogwarts chose to _mock and taunt_ him, for his appearance and his broken glasses. They chose him to be the _subject of their ridicule and laughter_. Once again he was chosen to be on the receiving end of cruelty, of kids his _own age._

The sorting hat chose _Gryffindor_ for him and the house expected him to be _brave, determined and chivalrous._

Sitting at the edge of a forest dying in winter, as he starved, was hunted and clueless on how to win a war when the odds were stacked against him he felt he was instead chosen to be a spectator as two of his friends displayed to him the two sides of the same coin. He saw the unflinching and unerring display of Hermione’s bravery, determination and faith in him while Ron displayed that even those sorted into the house of the brave could be broken down and falter. 

Being chosen to be a Gryffindor, the price he was often expected to pay he thought was his life. But sat here all alone, watching the blue bell flames conjured by Hermione in a jar, that he tucked closer to himself to warm up - for the first time in his life, he thinks the price goes beyond his very life’s blood. For he’s paying with his very being, a soul crushing weight of expectations suffocating him, as he must carry on. 

McGonagall was the next one to choose him. She picked him to be the _seeker of the Gryffindor quidditch team_ and the whole team and house expected he’d lead them to victories - at the cost of broken limbs, the weight of expectations, juggling the highs and lows that the results of the game determined leading him to either being hoisted on shoulders or sneered at by his own housemates. And these people were apparently supposed to be like his family within the walls of the institution meant to be his home. 

But even before all these things and people, something else had chosen him, though ironically it was only later that he had learned of this choosing of his. He doesn’t know if it was truly fate or Voldemort that had made the final decision, but here he was - ‘The fucking chosen one’. 

_**Fate** had chosen him to either kill a madman or die trying in the process._

The madman in question himself had marked Harry as his equal, though Harry felt nothing like the empowered psychopath right now as his stomach gave out a loud rumble and he suppressed his hunger. He gave out a bitter laugh as he thought about the irony of it all. Voldemort didn’t know the entirety of the prophecy and in his haste, had either picked either the instrument of his own doom or if he were to succeed, the trophy of his greatest success that he’d burn to ashes the moment Harry dropped dead. 

Even fucking Voldemort expected him to fight him _and_ die. 

Everyone and everything that had chosen him for something, in someway had always expected something out of that from him. Entertainment, daring, victories and trophies or merely his defeat and death. 

No one, no one however had chosen Harry for himself and not asked or expected nothing from him. Ever. 

_No one except Hermione._

She had chosen him and had not made any demands, any requests, anything at all. 

And he had stupidly and selfishly thought she had none. 

But even though she had never said anything, as he recalled the sight of her cuddling to inanimate objects in her sleep, he realised how _**lonely**_ she must have been feeling herself. For though he hadn’t abandoned her, he hadn’t been quite there for her as well. 

Hermione’s magic would have never acted up to give her some comfort in her fucking sleep, had he been there to provide her the same. Had he been a better friend, a better person, a better partner in this crusade to her. Hermione deserved so much better than he had been doling out to her.

As the sun rose in front of him, Harry Potter vowed to himself to be just that, to be the man, the friend, the partner Hermione deserves. For she had chosen him - chosen to stay beside him - on this depressing, god awful suicide mission, asking for nothing in return, expecting nothing from him. 

He’d be damned if he didn’t prove himself to be the man she deserves, to be the man who deserves to be chosen by someone like Hermione Granger. 


End file.
